


father to son

by icoulddothisallday



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ceremonial Transition, Coming Out, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fantasy Medical Transition, Gender Roles, Patriarchal Society, Trans Male Character, Trans T'Challa, Transition as a Child, Wakanda, Wakanda Ceremony, Wakanda Tech, Wakanda is Awesome, and trans people are fully supported, mentions of genitalia, mentions of secondary sex characteristics, supportive family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icoulddothisallday/pseuds/icoulddothisallday
Summary: The kingdom of Wakanda and the mantle of the Black Panther passes from father to son. It has for thousands of years. That blood runs in his veins. When he saysI am a boy,he saysI will hold Wakanda in my hand.To remake himself is to remake the nation.





	father to son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TetrodotoxinB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/gifts).



> So tetrodotoxinb and I were raving about Black Panther which is fucking amazing and if you haven't seen it you need to do so as soon as humanly possible. This idea was born of how truly amazing Wakanda is. 
> 
> Tetrodotoxinb did trans sensitivity reading and general betaing shenanigans. Thanks friend.
> 
> And even though you helped with this I am making it your (belated) birthday present. So fucking grateful for your presence in my life, you don't even know.

He stands in the hallway, waiting for his father to emerge from his meeting with the Elders. His clothes rustle as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s summertime, and the bright Wakandan sun pours through the windows. Closing his eyes, he lifts his chin. The Ancestors smile on him. 

The door opens and Baba exits, a thoughtful crease between his brows. Baba smiles when he sees him. “Cebisa, my child. What keeps you inside on such a beautiful day?”

The other children invited him — both to play ball in the park and to wander through the marketplace, but six weeks remain before his twelfth birthday, an occasion of much importance. 

“I must speak with you, Baba,” he says, meeting his father’s eyes. Baba sees into him, for his face grows serious and calm. 

“Come and walk with me,” Baba invites, gesturing down the hallway. He nods, and approaches his father. Baba rests a hand on his shoulder. They walk in silence through the sun-soaked halls. Baba leads them out a door onto the rooftop of a lower level. Green grass, browning with the fierceness of the sun, presses flat under their feet. 

“What is it, my daughter?” Baba asks, turning to look at him. 

He can’t hold back a wince, a fleeting but familiar pain. He’s known who he is for a long time now, but he wanted to be sure before he brought it to his Baba. His Baba doesn’t know how that word —  _ daughter  _ —- tears him up inside. 

He meets his father’s eyes. “I’m not a girl, Baba. Not inside. Not where it counts.” 

His Baba studies him, his eyes calm and kind. “Very well, my child.” Baba reaches forward, putting one warm palm on his cheek. “Very well, my son.”

He shudders, closing his eyes. He feels the warmth of the sun, the rough calluses of his Baba’s hand. He hears the quiet thrum of Wakanda around him. 

He is seen.

*

They tell his mother together. She embraces him, the gentle swell of her stomach between them. A sister, the doctors say. He hopes that he will be a good brother, regardless. He presses his face into the skin of her neck, trembling. 

“My son,” she says softly. “You make the ancestors proud.” The soft sweep and click of her voice is familiar, a stable undercurrent to the sweeping changes that are about to come. 

With his father’s hand on his shoulder and his mother by his side, he walks down into the depths of the mountain, to the sacred cavern of the Black Panther. Like every other time he has come here, he feels a pulse in his body, a rush in his head. 

His parents speak quietly to Zuri, but he wanders down the quiet paths. He kneels in front of the red sand and touches his fingers to it, feeling it’s warmth. 

He is not any other child, asking to be remade. It is not so simple to tell the truth of himself, not when his father is king. 

The kingdom of Wakanda and the mantle of the Black Panther passes from father to son. It has for thousands of years. That blood runs in his veins. When he says  _ I am a boy _ , he says  _ I will hold Wakanda in my hand.  _

To remake himself is to remake the nation.

His father crouches down beside him. 

“You understand what is to come, my son?” Baba asks. His dark fingers duck into the sand beside his, grains sliding off his palm. Twice, he has seen his father buried here, after challenges from the Jabari. Twice, he has waited with bated breath, feeling his heart pound in his chest. 

Each time, Baba woke, the strength and wisdom of the ancestors etched into body and soul. Each time, he dreamed that it was he who was buried in the sand, he who awoke with the strength of the Panther roaring through him. 

“I understand, Baba.”

“You will be a good king,” Baba says. In the quiet stillness of the cavern, he swears that he will not let his father down. He will be as good a king and as good a protector as his father, or the Ancestors may strike him down. 

*

The ceremony is trifold. 

First, he must give up his name and identity. His slate must be wiped clean, so that his mistaken body may be made anew. Zuri takes him deep into the mountain, to a cavern so filled with Vibranium that they need no other light to see. A chill fills the air, here, deep where the sun never touches. 

He strips out of his clothes, folding them neatly and handing them to Zuri. Later, they will be burned, a symbol of his renewal. He stands naked in the cavern, shivering. Looking down at his body, he examines it for the last time. 

His chest begins to bud, bringing a pit of discomfort to his stomach. Hair has started to grow around his folds. He looks at himself and is dizzy. The him he sees in his head looks nothing like this, has no thickening curves or gentle slopes. 

He looks up and away, meeting Zuri’s eyes. 

It has been years since he let anyone see him naked, let alone a man. But he meets Zuri’s eyes and lifts his chin and Zuri nods his respect. He comes forward, carrying a carefully crafted Vibranium bowl. 

“Cebisa will be stripped away,” Zuri says, his voice booming around the cavern. “So that the truth may be seen. Are you prepared, my prince?”

They’ve all started calling him that, in the weeks preceding this moment. He shivers. Already, he has begun to prepare to someday rule Wakanda. His Baba says there is too much to learn, that no time must be wasted. Panthers stalk his dreams as he runs in the plane of the Ancestors. He wakes tired and optimistic, sore and strong. 

“I am.”

He closes his eyes, waiting with bated breath. The cool press of paint touches his forehead, the slopes of his cheeks. Warm hands press on his shoulders until he kneels on the hard stone. 

“We wait,” Zuri intones. 

He waits. 

Cold creeps into his bones in a way he has never felt before. The heat of Wakanda is familiar, the chill of it’s nights just as much. But he has never felt a cold like this before. It creeps into his core, winds its way into his bones, leaves him shaking and shivering. 

He’s not sure how long it lasts. He knows only the touch of his knees against the ground, the chill of the air in the back of his throat, the uncontrollable trembling of his body.  

And then it stops. 

The warmth comes flooding back. 

He feels blank. Emptied out. 

Zuri takes his hands and lifts him to his feet. Zuri sweeps a purple robe around his shoulders, covering his nakedness. They walk through the empty tunnels, take the soundless elevator up into the towers. His mind is still. He is silent. 

He doesn’t see the people in the halls or their silent salute, crossed arms over chests. It is as if he walks in a dream, along a tightrope between two realities. The colors around him brighten and shift, until he walks through a tapestry so different than any he has known that he has no names for the colors he sees. 

His mother and father wait for him in the room of change. The doctors and healers stand by. 

Zuri steps back as his parents step forward. His mama sweeps away the robe and kneels in front of him. A healer brings her a tray of paints and his mother starts to anoint him. All over the softness of his stomach, she paints the symbol for change. Over his budding breasts, she calls for strength. Along his spine, she gives him bravery. 

As she finishes her last gesture, steadiness on the tops of his feet, she pulls away. Baba sweeps him into his arms, as though he is no more than a babe. He carries him over to the table and lies him down with tenderness. One arm at a time, Baba crosses his hands over his chest. When he has finished, Baba mimics the gesture. 

He will not stay awake for the ceremony of change. The healers will let him rest as they build his true form. When he wakes, he will be himself. 

The steady gaze of his father is the last thing he knows. 

*

When he wakes, his body is sore and warm. He has been moved from the room of change and is buried in the warmth of heated sand — not red, like in the cavern of the Black Panther, but a dull green, the color of birth and renewal. 

His body feels different — broader in the shoulder, stronger through his arms. There’s a welcome heaviness between his legs, a slimness in his hips. 

The room hums with noise as he opens his eyes. The pounding beat of it is in rhythm with the drumming of his heart. 

His name, he realizes. They’re calling his new name. 

“T’Challa! T’Challa! T’Challa!”

He stands, unashamed of his nakedness, crosses his arms over his chest, and bows his head. He can feel the touch of the ancestors in the strength of his new limbs, in the readiness of his heart. Now, his story starts. 

_ fin.  _


End file.
